Rain Is Home
by Idril Isil Gilgalad
Summary: Glenn said rain was home for him. Neither 'rain' nor 'home' meant much to Daryl. Watching Glenn, though, he wished they did. Short One-Shot.


Ok, this came out a little fluffier in the end than I originally planned. Though, honestly, I didn't really plan the end and it came out as it did.

If you care to know, this came to me when I was back for the winter holidays (yeah, this being the South Hemisphere and all that, here it's winter), and it started to rain slowly around me as I was walking to meet some old friends. Rains is home to me, because it's always raining where I grew up. And, yeah, that.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own this, or make any profit out of it.

**Warnings:** Language, hints of violence, hints of slash (if you squint).

As some of you may know, English isn't my native language, so any corrections are dearly appreciated.

The translations for the quote by Christian Morgenstern that are out there in the internet aren't accurate, so I wrote this one myself.

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**Rain is home**

"_Nicht da ist man daheim, wo man seinen Wohnsitz hat, sondern wo man verstanden wird."  
"Men are not home where their house is, but where they are understood."_

(Christian Morgenstern)

–––

It started to rain just an hour after Daryl went out of the farm house. He hissed like an angry animal and grumbled something, but didn't let it deter him from his hunt. When he came back, though, he was soaking wet, his feet were covered in mud and he was freezing.

Needless to say, he wasn't happy.

So he didn't appreciate Glenn's childish grin and shouting.

"Daryl! Look, it's raining!" The Asian man was standing beneath the falling rain, with his arms open and grinning towards the sky. Like it was Christmas morning. Or like it was the first time he'd ever seen the rain, ever.

"Yeah, no shit!" Daryl grumbled in response, feeling angry and cold and uncomfortable.

A thunder roared somewhere up in the sky. Glenn let out an excited yelp and bounced on his heels. Daryl bumped the other man's shoulder when he passed next to him; partially because the kid was in his way, and partially because Glenn's happiness kind of pissed him off.

Glenn, though, barely seemed to notice. Or care.

"C'mon, it's the first real rain in ages! And a thunder storm!" He insisted, still smiling stupidly at the dark clouded sky.

"Ya never seen rain before? Don't rain in yer country or somethin'?" Daryl shot back acidly.

He stepped into the porch and let his crossbow down with deep relief that he had found some kind of shelter. He was still muddy and cold, but at least there weren't big, fat drops pouring down his head and shoulders anymore. Daryl shook his hair with his hand to get rid of some of the water and leafs that were still tangled in it.

Something in his posture reminded Glenn of an angry bobcat.

"I was born in America, y'know? You _ass_." He glared half-heartedly. "I'm from Michigan. It rains all the time there. Anywhere I go, rain is home." He added and closed up his eyes, letting the rain fall softly on his face.

Daryl growled and shook his hair once again. He looked at his crossbow carefully, thinking he should dry it and grease it soon, before the water caused any rusting – the crossbow was the best weapon he had, he wouldn't let it get damaged any more than necessary.

When he looked up, though, he couldn't help but really _see_ Glenn for the first time. The kid seemed so relaxed and content; a small smile pulled up his lips. For a half second Daryl felt like he was intruding a very private moment, and couldn't help but back up half a step. Glenn really did like the rain, and that felt somehow alien to Daryl.

The redneck looked up at the sky and then back at Glenn with something close to awe. And envy, and longing. He wished he could feel that way about something, like it was home. The rain, though, always had meant something completely different from 'home' to him; it usually meant the roads would get muddy and his father would get even more ill-tempered than usual because he wouldn't be able to get to his favorite bar and had to stay in the house. It meant Daryl would get stuck with his violent father and brother, who usually sat together and argued and drank and laughed. Their father would sometimes beat his older son (never nearly as often as he beat Daryl, though), but as soon as Merle was big enough to fight back, both of them had become something close to buddies. And Merle would sit next to his old man and complain about how the world was going to hell thanks to those pansy-asses and democrats who were ruling the country and their father would pat Merle on the shoulder.

They were a team. They were so much alike. They were thick as thieves, and it made Daryl envious, sad, angry and happy at the same time, because he was so clearly not part of that. He was always the bad son, while Merle was always the favorite.

There were a few occasions, though, when both his father and his brother had turned against Daryl to vent their anger. He was never as big as Merle or their father, and even though he had developed a quick temper to survive in his house (if he didn't, he would've been called a pussy more often than he already was), he couldn't physically fight his father until he was nearly eighteen. So there were a couple of times he had been forced to run out of the house and into the pouring rain. Like the night he had gotten the scar in his chest.

So neither 'rain' nor 'home' meant much to Daryl. Watching Glenn, though, he wished they did.

But, as he'd learnt so long ago, the past could never be undone, and when that past was ugly, it was best to bury it and move on. He never had a home sweet and home and he never would (any chance he had, had been lost with this charming, little zombie apocalypse, remember?).

Daryl shifted his weight and examined his crossbow again, stealing short glances at Glenn, who was now splashing in the newly formed puddles, giggling like a school boy. Not for the first time, Daryl realized he had a soft spot for the kid. Because, well, he was a kid. And a good one. He was braver than Daryl could have believed at the beginning – that was the reason he was still alive, wasn't it? And he was an optimist, he was almost always happy. And he was kind of cute in these childish outbursts of his.

Daryl smirked to himself as soon as he thought that. He had always felt there was something different with him, and he knew his brother had always felt it too. Merle had always 'tried to make a man' of him – most of that was just big talk, but still.

Merle and their father had been a team. Daryl had always been an outsider. It had troubled him most of his life. Sometimes, increasingly these days, he was glad about it.

So, yeah, he had a soft spot for Glenn, just as he had a soft spot for Carol. She was a mother, and she was soft but stronger than she realized. He didn't get her and she unnerved him most of the time, but he couldn't stop having this weakness for her. And Andrea. She was tough; unnerving as well, but tough as nails.

Another thunder roared and the porch door opened. Carol got out and smiled shyly at Daryl (who answered with an awkward nod) before calling out for Glenn.

"Come back here, young man, or you'll get a cold!"

The door swung open again and Carl got out followed closely by his father.

"Hey, it's pouring out here!" Carl exclaimed before running towards the stairs and joining Glenn in his splashing game.

"Carl, come back!" Rick ordered. His son pointedly ignored him and the deputy sighed in defeat, resting his hands on his hips. "Teenagers." He muttered, rolling his eyes. He noticed Daryl and greeted him. "Hey. Good hunt?"

"Not much. The rain don't help." The redneck shrugged, dismissively.

"You're soaking wet. You should get changed." Carol chimed in softly, pursing her hands in a worried gesture.

Daryl scowled at her – he was a grown man, he could take care of himself. Rick snorted softly.

"She's right." The deputy agreed. "I have to get Carl back in before he gets drenched too."

He walked towards his son, but the kid run away, laughing. Rick started chasing him, unable to suppress a grin, slipping a little in the puddles without actually falling down.

"Get back here! Your mom's gonna get mad!" Rick said, trying to sound stern but failing miserably when a chuckle escaped from him.

"Nah-ah!" Carl retorted before running away again, tripping, falling to the ground and bouncing back up, covered in mud from the knees down, but unharmed.

"Oh, God, Carl!" Carol exclaimed.

"'M fine!" Carl assured her, a little breathless, before trying to make another turn to avoid his father.

Rick grabbed his son in the last second and both of them stumbled dangerously before catching their balance again. They were out of breath and after a moment they started to laugh uncontrollably.

Glenn had stopped his splashing to watch the Grimes boys, and now he approached them with a wide grin.

"You two alright?" He asked.

"Yeah." Rick nodded and breathed deep to regain his composure. "I guess I'm out of shape."

"Maybe you're just getting old." Carl supplied, smiling with mischief.

His father punched him lightly in the arm.

"Hey, I'm not old! And I'm still your dad, so show some respect." Rick admonished.

"Yeah, respect for my elders, you mean?" Carl replied, snickering.

Rick punched him again and then started tickling him. Carl giggled and then squirmed and tried to get away from him without much success.

"Stop it, you two!" Carol interrupted, though her tone was affectionate. "Now get in before all of you get pneumonia!"

Rick obeyed and grabbed Carl by the arm to guide him in.

"Yes, ma'am." The deputy said, touching an imaginary hat on his head.

Carol smiled and looked at them warmly as they stepped into the porch, leaving wet footprints behind them, before ushering them back inside.

Daryl had watched the whole scene with a cocked eyebrow and a reluctant smile. He wondered since when were all these people insane and childish. Probably, since always. He didn't find it in him to find them stupid, though – well, maybe just a little. They were crazy and weird, but they were… happy. As pointless as their horsing around was, they were happy.

Daryl had very recently come to realize how important happiness was.

Rick, now with water falling down his hair and face, grinned at Daryl and clasped him by the shoulder with his free hand, the other one still holding his son next to him. Daryl was caught off guard and made the gesture to pull away instinctively, but Rick only gripped him tighter, and Daryl forced himself to go back to his original position.

"Well, now we're all soaked." Rick said. "C'mon, let's get inside before Carol drags us in."

Daryl smirked tightly back and patted Rick's shoulder a little awkwardly in return.

The deputy smiled one more time, with his eyes more than his lips this time, and Daryl mirrored the gesture without thinking, feeling this strange twist somewhere around his stomach he had learnt to associate with the man.

Oh, he sure had a soft spot for Rick too. That much had been clear from the beginning. No surprise there.

Then Rick let go and pushed Carl lightly towards the door.

"You'll have to wash those jeans yourself, you know?" He told his son.

"But _daaaad_!"

"You heard me."

"Alright." Carl accepted with a petulant pout.

"Good boy." Rick said, ruffling Carl's hair. The boy frowned at him and pulled away, but he was obviously not really mad. Rick held the door open and turned around and lifted his eyebrows when he noticed Daryl was standing in the same spot. "You comin' or not? You must be freezin'."

Daryl nodded and shrugged, dismissing the latter, and followed Rick back inside the house.

Daryl was standing beneath a hot stream of water a few minutes later, and his toes ached a little from the change of temperature. Carol offered him a hot cup of coffee when he came back down and practically forced him to sit down on the couch. He refused a blanket, she insisted, and he ended up agreeing use it, but only on his lap and not around his shoulders like she wanted.

When he was drifting off to sleep that night, Daryl could hear the rain still hitting the sides of the house in waves. It was only then that it occurred to him that it hadn't been such a crappy rainy day after all. He had caught a couple more rabbits and squirrels, and the others had been pleased with that. As much as he hated to admit it, Daryl would've felt bad if the others hadn't liked it; sure, he would've told them to go fuck themselves and go hunting their own fucking squirrels, but he would've still felt like he failed. And Daryl had started to track what must have been a nice deer before the water messed up the trail, but now he was sure there was at least one of those out there.

There had been no big, smelly, angry old man sitting on the couch, yelling at him for being useless and unable to hunt anything properly. No shouting about sports, politics or whatever other topic of conversation his brother and father always fell into. Just Glenn smiling up at the sky, letting the drops hit his face, Glenn splashing around, Rick chasing Carl, Carol fussing over him – the coffee, the blanket –, Rick smiling at him.

He shouldn't get used to it, he knew that. Those things never lasted, not for him. Still, it hadn't been such a shitty day, and that was enough for Daryl. The small joys and all that zen crap, right?

He shouldn't expect the next day to be like that, and he didn't. But maybe, just maybe…

–––

"_God is in the rain."_

(V for Vendetta)

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Reviews are love C:


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